


Sparring

by Scrbhneoir



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: M/M, Pining, WoL is thirsty, and miqo'te have sensitive noses, thancred is shirtless, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25680826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrbhneoir/pseuds/Scrbhneoir
Summary: He’s shirtless.Not that Refie is looking. Much.
Relationships: Warrior of Light/Thancred Waters
Kudos: 22





	Sparring

He’s shirtless.

Not that Refie is looking. Much. But it feels a little unfair that they’re in the same room and all. And Refie knows it’s just because Thancred plans on finding some ladies afterwards, apparently women love the scent of sweat, or something, but he doesn’t want it on his shirt. Refie doesn’t know why.

For Refie it’s torture. He can smell Thancred throughout the entire room. His body heat, the huff of his breaths, the sharp strike of metal on metal. 

Refie parries him methodically. Mechanically. He wrinkles his nose and tries to breathe through his mouth, but as soon as he bares his teeth Thancred looks at his lips. And Refie  _ knows _ he does this because Refie is spending so much time looking away from Thancred’s bare, toned chest that he spends all his time looking at Thancred’s face.

Thancred’s eyes haven’t left Refie. They slide over his feet, his wrists, the shortsword, the twist of Refie’s shoulders. Humans’ eyes move so much slower than Miqo’tes’ do. Refie blinks half as much as Thancred does. In the twilight room, both too occupied to light candles, Refie has the advantage. He sees everything. He smells Thancred’s sweat on his own skin from the times he lets Thancred in too close.

Refie sidesteps and spins around Thancred, then pushes him forward and away. Thancred stumbles briefly, but quickly spins back around to parry.

But Refie hasn’t followed. He holds up his shortsword and covers his nose with his other hand. “I yield.”

Thancred sheaths his own sword. “Are you hurt?”

Refie shakes his head. “It’s stuffy in here. Hard to breathe.”

Thancred raises an eyebrow. “I hardly expect an enemy to back down simply because you can’t breathe.” But he walks over to one of the windows and pushes it open. A warm breeze blows in, dry air and nightly cool teasing the edges of the overwhelming smell of Thancred’s hot skin.

“I’m a Miqo’te.” He dares to lower his hand, not that it does much. He breathes through his mouth, pointed canines in full view. He knows Thancred is looking at them. “I smell everything.”

Thancred crosses his arms and looks amused, like he’s thinking about how best to push Refie’s buttons. And Refie knows he will.

“Do you ever attack with your claws? Or teeth?”

Refie bristles. “They’re not evolved for killing.”

Of course he  _ doesn’t like _ the way Thancred’s eyes glint and slide down Refie’s neck, collarbone, arms, to his hands. Refie tries not to twitch. That would let Thancred know that he knew.

Refie doesn’t like it because instead he loves it. Thancred’s gaze is always deceptively calculating. He wonders what Thancred sees in him, what he thinks of him, what weak spots he’s found that Refie doesn’t even know about.

He wants Thancred to continue looking at him in a way that assumes he’s getting away with it. That assumes Refie doesn’t notice.

“Then why did you choose to pursue the path of Monk?”

And there he’s backed Refie into a corner.

Refie delays his answer by setting his shortsword back on the weapons rack. He can smell himself on the leather bound hilt, though it still pales in comparison to Thancred’s. The air is heavy with sweat and expensive soap that all smells like  _ him _ . It’s sickeningly sweet. Refie feels like a child outside a chocolate shop.

“Pugilist,” Refie corrects, keeping his back to Thancred. His chest feels heavy. The weight of Thancred’s invisible touch presses down on his lungs. Refie is forced to sift through his thoughts covered in a haze of Thancred’s scent. “It’s an honorable path.”

“As is Paladin.”

“Honorable as in disciplined.” Refie makes a fist of his right hand and looks down at it. “I am only as skilled as my mind is steady.”

Thancred claps once. “How morally quaint! What an honor if we were all Monks then.”

Refie smiles and turns back to Thancred. He knows the other man jests, but he wishes Thancred would understand. “Other paths are just as honorable, and have their own disciplines for success…”

He trails off. Because Thancred is looking at his lips again. At his teeth poking out as he struggles to breathe through his mouth. Refie’s heartbeat has not slowed yet and he wonders for a moment if Thancred can hear it.

“You answered well,” Thancred starts. “Was it rehearsed?”

Refie presses his lips together. It forces him to take a deep breath through his nose and Thancred’s scent is like a tide rising up to his chin.

“You only recently joined the Pugilist’s Guild here in Ul’dah, but your skill level surpasses that of a common initiate, yet lacks finesse of someone of your age.”

Refie feels elated. He feels sick. He feels…

“How long have you been fighting?” Thancred asks.

A tenseness runs through Refie’s body, like a piece of leather pulled to its snapping point. He tries to pull it back under control but his instincts scream  _ threat! _ while his heart screams—

He’s not sure when he moves, but Thancred is ready. He’s drawn his sword and Refie’s drawn his brass knuckles. It’s a flurry of attacks and parries and Refie knows Thancred can’t keep up.

It happens like this:

Refie trips him and Thancred falls on his stomach, hands twisted behind his back. Refie’s hands are cool on his own heated skin — from the workout, from the desert air. He feels Refie’s breath, hot and heavy, on the back of his neck.  _ He can’t move _ . Refie’s weight pins his legs. His hair is in his face.

Thancred thinks of Refie’s teeth right before he feels them graze the skin under his ear.

Thancred goes utterly still.

“Do not ask how long I’ve been fighting,” Refie says, his voice a growl, his teeth, his lips, his breath caressing Thancred’s thudding pulse. Thancred wonders if Refie can already taste his blood. “Ask instead how many fights I’ve fought. Battles and wars are nothing. Survivors are not heroes.”

Thancred doesn’t speak. Even if he could, for once he doesn’t know what he’d say. Part of him scrambles to pick up the pieces of the puzzle Refie has dropped, snap them into place so he can better see the bigger picture. But the other part of him…

The other part…

Refie’s weight on his back is positioned in three points: Refie’s teeth against his neck, Refie’s hands pressing down on his back, and Refie’s leg holding down his thigh. Refie weighs nothing, despite his muscle, yet Thancred cannot find the strength to throw him off. The points of pressure spread through his body in warm, thudding waves as his pulse grows quick and heavy. It’s fear mixed with—

Refie’s presence vanishes and Thancred pulls in a desperate breath. He rolls to his feet, clumsy, and finds Refie on the other side of the room.  _ Miqo’te are not cats. _ But Refie moves like one: silent, hesitant, untrusting.

Thancred realizes he never had the upper hand in their sparring.

He realizes he could never take his eyes on Refie’s canines.

“I won’t ask again, Refie,” Thancred says softly.

Refie’s pale, violet eyes catch the light of the dying sun before he turns away again. His ears are flat against his head and his shoulders are tense. But he does not leave.

Thancred returns his shortsword to the weapons rack and stretches his arms above his head. “In fact, I’d love if you joined me for a drink, bar of your choice. Perhaps you can tell me more about what brought you to Ul’dah.”

Refie stands still, only his tail swaying back and forth, and for a moment Thancred expects Refie to turn him down. 

Then Refie says, “Somewhere with outside seating.” He looks over his shoulder at Thancred, eyes sliding down from Thancred’s face to his chest — and lower. “You reek of sweat.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading úwù  
> I'm still a sprout player but hoo boy the thancred brainrot is real  
> Uhhh ffxiv twitter [@thancredscatboy](https://twitter.com/thancredscatboy)


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